100 Themes in Loki-dom
by startraveller776
Summary: A series of unrelated one-shots inspired by 100 different themes. All Loki-centric, either non-pairing or with the Lokane pairing.
1. Mischief Managed Lokane

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. I just borrow my favorite characters, put them in a silly situation and say, "Have at it." Then I return them to Marvel only slightly scathed.  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Characters/Pairings:** Loki/Jane Foster  
**Genre:** Humor/Romance (kinda sorta)  
**Summary:** [Excerpt from "Adventures in Babysitting"] Jane's stuck babysitting a maniacal Norse God. He offers her a day without mischief if she'll let her hair down for one night.

**A/N:** So, I have a 100 Themes thingy in the Labyrinth fandom. Thought it would be fun to do here. These are oneshots based on a list of themes. Only unlike Labydom, I'm letting other people request numbers. All stories are Loki-centric. Chances are high that the majority of them will be Lokane.

This theme was requested by **amalgamads** on Tumblr. It turned out to be an excerpt of a Lokane fic I've been dabbling with. You can read the first part of the first chapter here (take out the spaces):

h-t-t-p : / / startraveller776 . tumblr post / 53292770364 / adventures - in – babysitting – lokane – fanfic - excerpt

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**72 MISCHIEF MANAGED**

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"If you're gonna be stuck here all night," Darcy yelled over the bass-heavy music, "you might as well live it up, boss lady." She knocked back her shot of tequila and bit into a lemon wedge. "Get drunk. Dance. Have fun. You _do_ know what having fun is?"

Jane rolled her eyes. "Yes, of course I know what having fun is." She pointed to the mass of writhing bodies on the dance floor. Loki was at the center of the throng, towering over the mortals with his head thrown back in laughter. In his very-fitted white button down shirt and charcoal slacks, he looked ridiculously out of place among the sea of graphic t-shirts and jeans. "That is definitely _not_ my idea of fun."

"Oh right. Your idea of fun is staring at star charts for hours until you find a new quasar or something." Darcy hopped down from the barstool. "You know, maybe he's right. If you were a pie chart, you'd be like this itsy-bitsy slice of sleep and the rest would be work."

"You so did not just take the side of the Supervillain!" Jane hissed, glancing in the bad guy's direction again. He gyrated with the groupies hanging all over him, wearing a predatory grin on his unfairly handsome face. If it weren't for Odin's curse preventing him from harming anyone, Loki would probably just as easily kill the girls as dance with them.

At least, that's what he told Jane he would prefer to do to _her_ if he could. After a protracted dose of torture, of course.

But then again, that particular threat had gotten old several weeks ago. He uttered it more by rote anymore than with real heat. Jane was reminded of her favorite childhood book where every night the Dread Pirate Roberts told Westley he'd probably kill him in the morning. Which he never did. Not that she believed her time with Loki would end with him giving her the keys to the proverbial kingdom, but his hateful epithet no longer frightened her. As much.

"Hellooooo!" Darcy shook a hand in front of Jane's face. "Please don't tell me you were doing calculations in your head just now. Because he's totally not going to keep up his end of the bargain if he figures out you're still working. And I really, _really_ need a break from Mr. Evil's practical jokes. He rigged my iPod so it only plays cats in heat. It's not as sexy as it sounds."

"Fine." Jane sighed in defeat. "No work, I promise." She picked up her shot of tequila, and grimacing, downed it. Dear God, it burned. "There," she coughed out. "Happy?"

Darcy planted her hands on her hips. "You have to dance, too."

"Only after I've had a few more of these." Jane held up her empty shot glass.

"Well, I guess you better get cracking," Darcy said, waving the bartender over. "Because I think Complicated Villain's spidey sense is tingling."

Darcy was right. Loki was staring straight at Jane, smirking even as he continued to bump and grind. He had chosen the underground club for the sole reason that it was way outside of Jane's comfort zone.

Jane hastily grabbed a drink that Darcy had just procured and gulped it down. The liquid torched er throat and she hacked out what felt like fire. Loki grinned wider, the jerk. Another glass was in her hand before she could ask for it, and glaring back at him, she drank that one in a single swallow too. Tears blurred her vision, but she wasn't about to lose this contest of wills.

"Another one!" she demanded through a cough.

"Another!" Darcy yelled in a deep, growly voice.

A pang shot through Jane's chest as she thought of Thor smashing a mug against the diner floor. She'd seen neither hide nor hair of the God of Thunder, not since he dumped Loki in her lap and let her know she was stuck with the dark-haired meanie indefinitely. She and Thor had parted on good terms—as friends—but with the alcohol seeping into veins now, she had a hard time not thinking of what might have been if Loki hadn't managed to get in the way with that big metal destroyer thingy and then the Battle of Manhattan.

Jane guzzled another shot and slammed it down on the bar. It all came back to Loki, didn't it? Everything that had gone south from the moment she met Thor could be blamed on the so-called trickster god. Well, she'd had enough of his antics—playful or otherwise. He had promised her one mischief-free day if she let her hair down tonight, and by Odin, she was going to wrangle it from him if she had to.

She grasped the arm of the nearest guy—a heavily tattooed and pierced young man with spiky hair. "Hey, do you want to dance? Let's dance." A nervous giggle bubbled up from her middle, but she swallowed it back down as she dragged him toward the dance floor. Loki watched her with that ever-present smirk and she wanted to punch him in the nose.

Maybe kicking back four shots in a row was not the best idea when she wasn't much of a drinker in the first place.

"So, what's your name!" her companion hollered as they pushed through the crowd.

"Jane!" she yelled back.

He pointed to himself. "Brad!"

She laughed before she could stop herself. "Sorry!"

Brad took it in in good stride. "Not the name you were expecting?"

She shook her head. "Honestly, no! I expected something more like Spike!"

"What can I say?" He shrugged with a grin. "I'm an enigma!"

Okay, so maybe this wasn't going to be _all_ bad. The smell of sweat and a dozen different body sprays was awful, but at least her dance partner was charming in a "I'm totally metal but my name is Brad" way. She tried to make her body move to the music as best as she could, having been cursed with her dad's two left feet. Brad grabbed her arm and pulled her into him, and they joined the others in an odd jumping, grinding, flailing type of dancing. It made her think of those anthropology videos she watched in undergrad school about tribal rituals.

Soon, she lost herself to the swirl of music and alcohol. There was no way she would admit it to Loki—or Darcy—but it was kind of nice to just let loose. The last time she had partied was back in college, where she had way too much to drink and ended up throwing up all over her crush when he tried to kiss her. Surprisingly, he had asked her on a date afterward.

A warm body pressed against her back and a hand fell against her hip, guiding her to the rhythm of the bass. She closed her eyes and leaned against her companion, feeling a tad wanton thanks to the tequila. Nope. Not so bad after all.

Until…

"I rather like this unrestrained side of you, Jane."

Jane's eyes shot open at Loki's baritone. She tried to pull away from him, but he held her tight.

"Oh, don't go," he murmured against her ear. Tingles dove down her spine as he wrapped his other arm around her torso. "We were having so much fun."

"Where's Brad?" she asked through gritted teeth.

"Who? The boy of many colors?" Loki leaned over her shoulder, pretending to search the dimly-lit club. "I've no idea where he went after I implied that you were here with me."

Jane scowled. Of course he would chase off the nice tattooed guy. Of course he would ruin any chance she had at a good time. "What about your fan club? Were they too beneath you?"

"Well, yes." Loki let out a loud, rich laugh. He spun her beneath his arm and brought her back, this time facing him. "Why dance with the drones when I can have the queen?"

Her stomach did frenetic acrobatics as he peered down at her. This was not his typical "I am thinking of all the ways I could make you weep in abject agony" stare. This was more like "It just occurred to me there are other, more mutually pleasurable games with which to torment you."

It terrified her.

She pushed against Loki, suddenly dizzy from the music, from him. "I can't." She ran a hand across her forehead, feeling cold sweat on her skin. "I need to go to the bathroom."

"Do hurry back," he said, relinquishing his grip on her. "You never know what kind of nefarious deeds I might get up to in your absence."

Jane stumbled through the crowd with Loki's laughter trailing behind her. Why did he have to be so…so…? She let out a frustrated scream as she stalked toward the back of the club.

The door's hinges creaked as she walked into the restroom and squinted at the bright light. A few gals were fixing their makeup and jabbering about some guy or another. Jane ignored them as she hopped up on the nearest empty section of counter. She just needed some peace and quiet.

"Okay, what the hell was that?"

Which apparently she was not going to get.

Jane groaned. Her assistant stood before her, hand on hips. "Not now, Darcy."

"Yes _now_, Jane." Darcy paced the bathroom, staring down the other girls who seemed to be listening in. "What were you doing dancing with—" she dropped her voice, "—God of Everything Bad and Nothing Good? I mean, I completely support you getting your groove on for once, but with _him?_"

"Trust me, dancing with him was the _last_ thing I wanted to do." Jane rubbed her temples. "I think I'm getting a headache."

"Are you guys," another voice piped in, "talking about that really hot tall guy with dark hair? Because if you're not into him—"

Darcy threw up a hand. "I'm sorry, were you invited into this conversation? No. So just back off, okay?" As the girl began to leave, Darcy added, "Oh, and word to the wise. That guy is totally a serial killer. You might not want to go there. Just sayin'."

The girl shot her a fearful look before exiting the bathroom with her friends.

"Darcy, he's not a serial killer," Jane said. "He can't hurt anyone."

"Yeah, well the whole psychopathic maniac who destroyed New York with his alien army thing is kinda classified." Darcy pointed toward the door. "Do you want that chick flinging herself at him?"

Jane let out a heavy sigh as she sagged against the mirror. "Yeah, I can't argue with that."

Darcy studied her for a moment. "Are you okay?"

"Nope." Jane gave into the sudden, irrational urge to laugh. "I'm so not okay. I haven't been okay since Thor dropped Loki off. I can't get any real work done because I'm constantly putting out _his_ fires. Which, you know, is exactly what he promised me from day one—that I'd be begging Thor to take him back."

"So why don't you?"

Jane laughed again. It was a perfectly reasonable question. Why hadn't she just picked up the Asgardian telephone—aka Heimdall—and told Thor game over. Taking care of Loki was loco and she'd like a refund, thank you very much. But Thor had believed so fervently in her ability to keep Loki in check, she didn't want to disappoint him. That and the generous monthly stipend provided by Odin would disappear.

"Reasons," she finally said. "Lots and lots of reasons. I've just got to tough it out." She gave Darcy a weak smile. "At least I get a day with Mr. Mayhem on his best behavior, right?"

Darcy shrugged. "Probably not if you stay in here all night."

"Probably not," Jane agreed. "Just a few more minutes of respite before I throw myself back into the den of inquity."

"Do you want me to stay or—"

Jane waved her off. "Go. Dance. Have a one-night stand, or whatever it is people with social lives do."

"You got it, boss lady." Darcy gave her a jaunty salute.

Then Jane was blessedly alone—for about thirty seconds before another gaggle of women came to use the facilities. She closed her eyes and pretended none of them existed, though it was hard to do with all their gossiping. Some girl named Sarah was apparently "slutting it up" with all the hot guys on the floor. Except for that one super mega sexy guy in a suit who had stopped dancing a while ago. But then, didn't you hear? Amy's sister's best friend saw a guy who looked just like him on America's Most Wanted or TMZ. Supposedly he was a serial killer. Or a celebrity. Or both.

The chatter didn't vary much as the groups of gal pals recycled. Sure there would be some commentary on how someone was cheating on somebody, but overall the topic du jour was Loki. Who was he? Was he really a killer? Jane laughed when one of the girls swore he was a cannibal. No, wait. Wasn't he in that new action flick coming out?

She couldn't even escape him in the lady's room.

"Hey, aren't you here with him?"

Jane opened her eyes to find six more gazing back at her. The girls wore heavy make-up in a poor attempt to hide their underage-ness. It was hilarious that they'd been going into graphic detail about what they'd like to do with a man who could have been their great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great—Jane didn't know how many greats—grandfather. Murderous, world domination tendencies aside.

"Yes, she is."

Oh, fabulous. She _literally_ couldn't escape him in the lady's room.

The three girls sucked in a collective breath as the man in question stepped fully into the bathroom. He gave them a cursory glance with a hint of disdain before dismissing them. "Leave us."

The girls hesitated only a breath before making a hasty getaway. A toilet flushed in one of the stalls and another gal came bursting out, zipping her pants as she ran off. Without even washing her hands. How uncouth. Jane giggled at her own joke. The alcohol was most definitely having an effect on her.

Loki planted his hands on the counter on either side of her legs, entirely too close for comfort. How was it that he managed to smell like the air before a winter storm when everyone else smelled like cheap cologne and deodorant?

"Jane Foster," he said with a stern look, "You are doing a very poor job of keeping up your end of the bargain. Hiding out in a restroom does not constitute fun."

"Depends on what you're doing in the restroom," she blurted out. Thank you, Señor Tequila.

He smiled then, his tongue flicking across his bottom lip as his gaze dipped briefly south. "True, but I doubt you were having _that_ kind of fun." His grin widened at the blush creeping over her cheeks. "Fortunately for you, I'm willing to amend our agreement."

Jane snorted. "Oh, _fortunately_." This ought to be good.

"Mmm." Loki nodded. "I offer you more than one day of good behavior. Perhaps several."

Jane stared at him for a moment, not quite sure she'd heard him correctly, and then burst into a fit of laughter. "Riiight. Is that even physically possible for you?"

"You've no idea what I'm capable of." There was that look again—the one that had her middle doing queasy somersaults. Daily death threats she could handle. But this? She didn't know what to do with this.

"What do you want in return?" If he said clubbing every night of the week, she was definitely out.

Loki shrugged. "Just insignificant little thing." He leaned forward, making the air thick with his presence. "A kiss."

Jane blinked, unable to compute his words. "You want a _kiss_? From me?"

"No, I want a kiss from that insipid assistant of yours." He gave her a sardonic look. "Of course from you, Jane."

"Why?" She narrowed her eyes. What did he have up his sleeves?

His lips curled in his signature diabolical grin. "Because Thor would despise it. Because you would despise that you liked it."

"Like it? Pfft." Jane shook her head. Never happen. "And how many well-behaved Loki days would I get for this kiss?" The question left her mouth before her brain could abort. She wasn't seriously considering locking lips with the Big Bad from Asgard. Was she?

"That would depend on the kiss, wouldn't it?" Ugh. Why did he have to smile like that? Like she couldn't give him a good enough kiss to warrant several days of him behaving like a good boy.

Suddenly, Jane wanted nothing more than to wipe that smirky, smarmy look off his face. Before she could talk herself out of it, she grabbed him by the shirt, pulled him close and planted her lips on his. At first he didn't respond, and she felt a little smug. Who's the bad kisser now, huh?

And then, he was into it, moving his mouth against hers as if he had taken an advanced course in making out and gotten the top grade. This was turning out to be a really, really bad idea. Because she didn't want to stop. Ever. Especially when he nudged her knees apart and tugged her against the flat planes of his abdomen. Especially when he growled after she raked her teeth across his bottom lip.

But when his long fingers slipped under her blouse and began cinching it up, she realized she was not nearly drunk enough for _that_. She shoved him back, abruptly breaking off the kiss as he made unintelligible noises in protest. He looked down at her with wide eyes and was blessedly speechless for the first time since she'd known him.

"That's a week and not a day less," she said, silently congratulating herself for having a steady voice. "Plus the previously agreed upon day. And you have to actually help me in the lab. If you don't, I swear to the All-Father, I will shave your head while you sleep."

She slid off the counter and, despite every bone in her body having become melted goo, sauntered out of the bathroom as if she'd just bested an ancient deity at his own game. Which she had. Sort of.

He'd been right, though. She liked that kiss—way too much.

She was so going to regret this later.

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**A/N:** Thanks for reading this little crack thing. Reviews are very welcome.


	2. Foreign Lokane

*****GENTLE REMINDER THAT THESE ONESHOTS ARE **_**UNRELATED**_** TO ONE ANOTHER, NOT ONLY IN STORY BUT IN GENRE AND STYLE.*****

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. I really don't. Just playing, but I promise to put them all back when I'm done.  
**Rating:** PG-13 (STRONG; for sensuality)  
**Genre:** Drama/Dark Romance  
**Summary**: [Prequel to "This Time."] Jane Foster bumps into a tall dark stranger on the streets of Puente Antiguo, not knowing he's come to make good on an old promise. Post-Avengers Lokane. Dark!Loki.

**WARNING:** "This Time" is a Dark Lokane tale, so expect the same from this prequel.

**A/N:** Theme requested by **Artemis Day**.

**Theme song:** _Me and the Devil_ by Soap&Skin.

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**27 FOREIGN**

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"No, Darcy. You can't buy a new iPod with the grant money." Jane rolls her eyes as she hurries down the sidewalk. She cradles the cell phone between her shoulder and ear as she totes an overfull box of equipment.

"Oh, come on!" comes Darcy's whine on the other end of the call. "Music is, like, integral to my process. It'll make me a more efficient assistant. It's a total write-off."

"Darcy," Jane warns.

"Fine. Whatever." Darcy lets out an exaggerated sigh. "I'll see you next month—if my mother hasn't kidnapped me and forced me to marry some doctor."

"Bye, Darcy." Jane rolls her eyes again as the line goes dead. Not for the first time, she wonders what it would be like to have an assistant who actually takes work seriously. SHIELD offered, but then after what Darcy and Jane had been through together, Jane can't imagine not having her sarcastic sidekick—no matter how she might fantasize otherwise.

The cell phone begins to slide from her shoulder and she instinctively raises a hand to catch it. The box in her arms falls to the concrete with a loud crash, sending the electronic parts flying. Unable to stop her forward momentum, Jane flings her arms outward to brace for impact.

She collides instead with another body.

A hand captures her wrist just before she tumbles over. "Sorry!" She squints up at her savior as an embarrassed blush heats her cheeks. He's tall and lean, wearing a black three-piece suit with the coat slung over his shoulder. The cuffs of his white shirt are rolled up to his elbows, and she notices oddly that the bottom button of his vest is undone.

"Miss Foster?"

She looks up at the deep and unfamiliar timbre, guessing British by his accent. His long face—all planes and angles, framed by glossy shoulder-length black hair—makes her think of an ethereal fairytale being. He's not handsome in the classical sense, not like Thor. (No, don't think of him.) A more fitting descriptor for this stranger is beautiful. But not effeminate. There is something in his intense gaze that tells her he is every bit as masculine as a blond demigod she is most emphatically _not_ thinking about right now.

A moment later, she registers that the dark-haired man has said her name. She frowns, worried that SHIELD is attempting to foist another babysitter on her. Since Erik's sabbatical to Norway, Fury seemed to think Jane incapable of handling her research on her own.

She eyes the man before her. "Do I know you?" She doesn't, but she wants to hear whatever lie he will come up with.

"I don't believe you do, no." He raises a brow and points to the upended box on the ground. "Foster" is scrawled in huge block letters across the side, and Jane feels a little foolish for being suspicious.

"Oh, right." She half smiles, half grimaces. "Foster. Yeah, that's me. Jane Foster." She bends over to pick up the box and its contents. "I'm so sorry for all of this—" She pauses, hoping he'll fill in the blank with his name. When he says nothing, she continues on, even more flustered.

"Anyway, I can be a bit of a klutz sometimes." Stop babbling, Jane. Just shut up before you can say something really stupid. Numbers and star charts she's good with. People? Not quite as good. Really attractive foreign guys? Not good at all.

He is so quiet, at first she thinks he might have walked away. But then he squats down and retrieves a computer fan from the ground, studying it with a frown. "Yours, I presume," He holds it out to her.

"Yes." She takes it from him, unsure of what to say next. The way he stares at her with those pale eyes—not quite green, not quite blue—unsettles her. For a giddy heartbeat, she wonders if he's trying to read her mind. Chills prickle across her skin.

"So, um, thanks," she says, trying to fill up the awkward silence. She brushes a strand of her hair behind her ear and he follows the movement with the tilt of his head. "Okay. I guess…goodbye?" She flashes what she hopes is a smile and picks up her box.

His smooth fingers are over hers, and the goosebumps tingle back up her arms. "Allow me." His mouth stretches into a wide grin, bearing perfect white teeth.

There is the tiniest flutter building in her middle—something she hasn't felt since… No, don't think about _him_. "It's okay. I've got this. Thanks for the offer, though."

"It's true, then," he says rising with her. "Chivalry has no place in your modern world."

Jane finds his use of "your" instead of "our" strange but dismisses it. "That's not it."

"Then what is it?"

"I just…" She searches for an answer that sounds reasonably intelligent. "Listen, I don't know you. And I don't have the greatest track record with strangers—especially guys who definitely look like they have no business hanging around a place like this." She leaves unsaid that the last visitor they had nearly got the whole town destroyed. Not that it was Thor's fault—not really.

"A wise course, I'm sure," the man before her replies. He places his hand on his chest, splaying those long fingers against his black tie. "Lukas. And you are Jane. Are we not acquainted now?"

Jane has no argument against that, though she feels like she should. "Fine. I'll let you carry my box on one condition."

He smiles again—an expression which is both disarming and disquieting. "Oh? And what would that be."

"You have to tell me what you're doing in Puente Antiguo. Business or pleasure?"

He glances away as he considers her question. "Both," he says after a protracted silence. "You could say that I'm on a holiday of sorts, but I'm also here to take care of a few…loose ends."

"That sounds," Jane replies, frowning, "cryptic."

He gives her a half-shrug but doesn't offer further explanation. Instead, he reaches for her bundle and deftly balances it in one arm. "Lead on, fair maiden."

As they head toward her lab, Jane becomes acutely aware of the stares of the geriatrics sitting on the bench in front of the barber's shop. Most of the population of Puente Antiguo has come to tenuously accept Jane again in the year and a half since Thor's visit. But the white-haired set hasn't forgiven her for bringing a tornado of crazy down on their dusty little haven. And here she is with another outsider.

She glances at Lukas. He wears a hint of a smirk, as if he knows the attention his presence as engendered and he's amused by it. His tongue sweeps across his bottom lip as he meets her gaze and her stomach ripples. There's a hunger there, ringing the pupils of his eyes. Wild but restrained like frothy waters beating against a dam. She shrinks away from it as she backs away from him.

His smile broadens a hair before his expression turns blank, guarded. "You still don't trust me?"

"I still don't know you." She points to the rundown building across the street. "That's me." The fishbowl-like windows of her makeshift lab have been tinted since SHIELD began funding her research. They offered her state-of-the-art facilities as well, but accepting it felt too much like selling out. She clings to the gutted former car showroom as if it's the last vestige of her scientific independence.

This is where Jane's encounter with the enigmatic Lukas should end, but he crosses the road before she can retrieve the box from him. Digging into her pocket for her keys, she scrambles after him. When she opens the door, he walks inside without so much as a "by your leave." Jane huffs at this but doesn't say anything. He has the air of someone who always gets what he wants, and her earlier misgiving is rekindled.

"Thank you," she says, taking the box from him and setting it on the ground.

"My pleasure." He takes in her lab with the slow turn of his head, fingers brushing against the pile of notes scattered across the nearest desk. "What is it you do, Jane Foster?"

The way he says her name, dropping the "r" at the end as if it hadn't belonged there in the first place… She shakes herself, ignoring the sudden warmth blossoming on her cheeks, and hastily gathers her paperwork out of his reach. "It's kind of classified."

He holds up his hands in surrender. "I meant no harm." Amusement ghosts in the corners of his smile. It's almost disarming, but not quite.

Silence falls between them, and he begins to meander through her lab, picking up the snow globe Darcy gave her last Christmas as a joke. Lukas turns it over, frowning at the flecks of white swirling in the water. Setting it down, he turns back to Jane.

"I should like to know you better," he says. It's not a question; it's an intention.

"Why?"

He draws closer to her, siphoning the air from the room with each languid footfall. She doesn't retreat, though. It's not in her nature to cow to others.

"Because," he says, grinning again, "you intrigue me. Is that not reason enough?"

She cranes her neck to meet his gaze, her heart rate accelerating at the intensity in his eyes—as if she is all that exists in the universe and he wants to know why. "Coffee?" She blushes at the tremor in her voice.

His brows draw together in a brief furrow. "Coffee," he repeats the word as though its shape is unnatural on his tongue. "Perhaps, tomorrow."

Jane nods, not entirely certain why she's agreeing to this. "So, do you want to meet here or…"

His grin is an incongruous combination of innocence and something predatory. "Don't worry, Jane," he says, stepping toward the door. "I'll find you."

And then he is gone.

Chills slide over her arms at the promise in his parting words.

* * *

He kisses her after their third date.

It's not entirely unexpected, but Jane is still taken by surprise when he leans down and brushes his lips against hers. Like a request. Like a warning. She tips up her chin instinctively, leans into him, and feels him smile against her mouth.

As if that simple movement is the permission he needs, his kiss turns consuming. Her entire body becomes a super conductor, lightning dancing across her skin. She has never been the focus of such single-minded desire and a thrill builds in her middle, snaking lower.

They make it inside of her apartment. Only just. She should stop this, tell him to go before they cross this line. But she doesn't. Because for the first time in eighteen months, she's not thinking about a golden-haired god who swept out of her life as quickly and unexpectedly as he swept in. There is only Lukas and the press of his lips against her throat, the caress of his fingers beneath the waistband of her jeans.

They leave a trail of discarded clothing as they stumble toward her bedroom. She doesn't care about the stacks of books on the floor they kick over, the papers fluttering across the carpet, as they crash to her bed. It's flesh on flesh, mouth on skin.

She closes her eyes as she slips toward blissful oblivion.

Afterward, she rests her head on his chest as he traces designs on her nude back. She is content, more at peace than she has been in… She can't remember when. Not in the last year.

"When first we met," Lukas says, his chest vibrating with his deep timbre, "I had believed our encounter would go differently. Vastly so."

Jane smiles. "Oh?"

"Mmm." He combs his fingers through her hair. "I like this much better than what I had initially planned."

"Planned?" Her smile vanishes as a thread of disquiet trembles in her chest.

"I had planned," he says while continuing his affectionate caress, "to torture you so exquisitely that even Thor would beg for the mercy of your death. But I think I shall make you mine instead."

Ice crystalizes the blood in her veins. She doesn't want to believe what she's hearing. Torture? Thor? Her eyes widen as understanding comes to her piece by terrible piece. She pulls away from him, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders with shaking hands. Swallowing her fear, she says one word.

"Loki."

He gives her a broad grin. "Very clever, though perhaps not clever soon enough."

Her breaths come too short, too shallow, stifled by the weight of what he has done—what _she_ has done. But how is he here? She doesn't realize that she gave voice to the question until he answers.

"How am I here? When I'm supposed to be locked away in the crystal cells of Asgard? Like some dangerous weapon put on display but never admired?" He sits up, still grinning. "But I am, Jane. I _am_ there."

He brushes the hair from her eyes. "And I am also here. Keeping the promise I made long ago."

"Get out." She cringes away from him.

"Please don't," Lukas—_Loki_ replies, his mouth turning downward in an exaggerated frown. "You needn't fear me—not anymore. Come, give your lover a kiss."

She bats his hands away when he reaches for her. "Never."

He laughs as if her defiance is pointless. "We shall see," he says. "Until tomorrow, little bird." His fingers brush her cheek just before he winks out of existence.

She stares at the space he occupied, horror churning in her stomach. Her fingers quake as she touches her lips, tasting the memory of his kiss ghosting there. She strips the bed with a scream, scrubs her skin in the shower until it's raw. She curls up on the floor, damp and shuddering until she succumbs to exhaustion.

_Until tomorrow_.

Never. Never again.

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you for reading!


	3. Dying Lokane

**Disclaimer:** I own a whole lot of things, but Marvel isn't one of them. (Much to my chagrin.) No copyright was harmed in the spinning of this silly little tale.  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Summary:** "Death comes in many forms, Jane Foster. Not all of them kill you." (Thor 2-ish Lokane)

**WARNING (MILD):** Dark_ish_ Loki. This is Thor 2 Loki.

**A/N:** This was actually more inspired by "Seven Devils" by Florence + The Machine. That song just gave me all kinds of delicious creepy Dark Loki thoughts.

This is also inspired by a new quote from Tom Hiddleston about the Loki & Jane Foster in Thor 2: _"There's been this unspoken relationship between Loki and Jane, but they've never actually met. And I think there's a huge amount of mileage to be had in whatever that spark is between them. Jane knows about Loki, Loki knows about Jane, and what happens when we get the two of them in a room together."_

* * *

**43 DYING**

* * *

He came around the corner, gliding silently, slowly like a prowling cat. A deadly smile curled the corners of his mouth when his pale eyes found hers. Her steps faltered and she instinctively glanced to the side in the vain hope that someone else—anyone else—was in the torch-lit corridor. She saw nothing. She heard nothing but the rapid thrumming of her heart. They were alone.

His tongue crested his bottom lip in a brief movement as he cocked his head, studying her. "Jane Foster." He said her name in a rumbling murmur that stretched in the air between them.

This is how I die, she thought, retreating a hairsbreadth.

He advanced on her with a deliberate pace, as if he expected her not to flee. As if she knew as well as he did that any attempt to escape would be futile. The enormous marble pillars seemed to close in on her with each liquid fall of his boots. She sucked in a deep breath, willed her heart to stop racing.

"Look at you," he said, brow furrowed in a mockery of concern, "pretending that you aren't afraid of me. I _like_ this—your bravery, foolhardy though it may be." He grinned again. A predator cornering his prey. Toying with it.

She lifted her chin with all the bravado she could muster. "Do I have any other choice?" she asked, flexing her right hand in remembrance of when she had struck him earlier. She hadn't been alone then. She hadn't felt so small then.

He raised a brow—now so close she had to crane her neck to see his face. "You could," he said, "cower before me. Beg me to spare your life." When her only response was the clenching of her jaw, he continued, "No? Perhaps you are right. This is much better."

"What is?" she asked with force, to hide the tremor in her voice. How many ways could he kill her? Would he torture her? Or would it be mercifully quick?

He didn't answer, but instead circled around her, taking her measure. She resisted the urge to follow him with her eyes. His presence was like a creeping fog, chasing away the oxygen in her lungs.

Unable to bear the tension further, she broke the silence. "What do you want?"

"Many things," he replied, turning to face her again. "From you, however, I want to know what draws him to you." He looked genuinely perplexed. "You're nothing. Weak. Mortal."

Anger overtook her fear as she answered him. "Of course you don't understand. Love is something a madman like you wouldn't know anything about."

His mouth twisted into a snarl as his hand flew toward her throat. His long fingers stopped short of bruising that tender flesh, however. Less an imminent threat, more a whispered promise. Icy fear pebbled across her skin all the same.

"Watch your tongue," he bit out. "I have known love long before your ancestors found a way out of their straw huts. Do not _dare_ to tell me what I do and do not know!"

This is the moment, a voice whispered calmly in her head as she stared up at his wild expression.

And then his hand was gone. She sucked in a rasping breath, unconsciously touching her neck. He watched her, gauging her reaction—as if this were some grand experiment. Prod the little human and see what she does. He laughed when she glared back at him.

"Oh, there's _fire_ in you." He rubbed his jaw where her fist had once made contact. "But then, I already knew that. Is this what inspires his affection for you?"

"Why don't you ask him?" Her heart leapt when the cold marble of the pillar pressed up against her back. Had she been backing away from him?

He shook his head. "But I'm asking _you_. Why. Does. He. Love. You?"

"I don't know," she answered honestly. There wasn't a recipe for attracting the attention of old Norse gods. Neither was there a step-by-step guide on how to escape villainous immortals, and she would have given anything for the latter at this moment.

"Not good enough, I'm afraid." His gaze was piercing, unsettling, as though he could see into the very essence of her if he searched deep enough. "What did you do to him? How did you change him?"

Her brow furrowed. "I didn't do anything," she said, and then added as a deflection, "Are you the same person you were before?"

His eyes widened a fraction; the question had caught him off-guard. He recovered quickly, though, with that smile which promised nothing good. "Aren't you a shrewd creature? No, I am not the same. My life before was…nothing but a ruse." There was something in the almost-quaver of his timbre, cracked and not quite mended, that made her want to pity him.

But she knew this story already. And she knew him. The God of Lies. The purveyor of chaos, of mayhem. There would be no sympathy for the villain. Not from her.

"I wonder if you could change me as you have him," he said. His eyes fell to her lips, and the tone of their encounter took a horrifying turn. "Tame me."

She swallowed thickly, shaking her head. There was no gentling the feral deity who had killed so many innocents in a maniacal grab at world domination, who had attempted genocide to prove himself the worthy son.

He smiled—darkness masked in beauty. "Tame me the same way you tamed him." He fingered a lock of her hair, pushed it behind her ear. "With a kiss."

Gelid blood pounded in her ears. Her hands shook only a little as she pushed his away. "No," she said with all defiance. "You're insane."

His laughter echoed in the empty corridor. "So I've been told." He stared down at her, his expression falling slack with glistening eyes too wide, too exposed. "What if love is the cure for my madness?" The question sounded so earnest—as if he desperately wanted to be free if his delirium, as if he wanted to undo every sin he had committed.

But then, he _did_ have love. From his brother. From his mother. Perhaps even from his father—if not forgiveness. And he had rejected all of it.

"I could never love you." She couldn't. Not after what he'd done to her people. Not after what he'd done to Erik. "I will never love you."

For several trembling heartbeats, he was silent. His face was devoid of any hatred or anger, and it was more chilling than his earlier snarling display. She'd been wrong before. _This_ was how the end would come. Passionless with snowy precision.

"Prove it," he murmured, "if you're so certain. After all, what's a kiss without affection, without _desire_?" He drew the last word out with a breathy roll. "Nothing but a useless token. What have you to fear, little Jane?"

His reasoning was logical, innocuous. But she was intelligent enough to understand that one did not kiss a deadly viper without getting poisoned. Her objection died in her throat as she looked up at him. The hardness in the corners of his eyes spoke of a line drawn in the sand. He wouldn't let her go until this point was made—either in his favor or hers.

This would be her victory, not his. Even if his defeat thrust him over the precipice into retaliation.

He grinned as though sensing her resolution, as if he liked the flavor of it. The unspoken exchange was enough to let loose the arrow of this irrational challenge. He coiled his hand around the slope of her neck and, leaning forward with parted lips, captured her mouth. Tentatively like a new lover's request. She'd expected calloused force, not subtlety. Not this raw yearning. Her rigid defiance slipped a hair and, unthinking, she relaxed into the kiss.

His other hand brushed her jaw, tangled his fingers in her hair, and then he breathed staggering hunger against her lips. She flinched from the sudden inferno of his tongue on hers, blazing across every nerve-ending. He held her mercilessly against the tide, allowed her no reprieve from his thirst.

She experienced a lifetime in that simple contact. Years of his skin against hers, his hands caressing up her thighs—a motion no less thrilling from its familiarity. A thousand arguments over stupid things, every one ending with the curve of her pressed into him. The comforting feel of her back against his chest as he taught her how to manipulate the unseen matter of the universe. His genuine smiles when she would expound on some new project melding science and magic. The way he melted into his favorite armchair, finger rubbing across his upper lip when he was brooding.

The unabashed wonder that widened his eyes when, hand on her swollen belly, he felt their child kick for the first time.

Stop. Stop. Stop. _Stopstopstopstopstop_—

She shoved him away with a savage yell, tears making wet tracks down her face. She scrubbed at her mouth, trying to erase the taste of him, to erase her knowledge of him, what had driven him to the brink of lunacy, and how he could fit so well in the space around her heart despite what he had done. It had been too real—their life together. His redemption born from her compassion.

Her love _was_ the antidote. And she _could_. She could love him.

_No_. She choked back a sob. No, it was all a lie. A farce meticulously woven by the god of deceit.

His dry laugh pulled her from these terrible thoughts. "You should have begged me to spare you when you had the chance," he said, perverse amusement in the lilt of his baritone.

She blinked, not entirely comprehending his meaning. Fear was becoming a too-familiar companion.

"Death comes in many forms, Jane Foster," he replied as if in answer to the question she dared not voice. "Not all of them kill you."

He drew a thumb across her cheek, collecting the tears that she couldn't stay. "Every night, as you lie in his arms, you'll think of me. You'll know that you could have loved me more than you ever loved him. You'll know your loyalty to me could have transformed the monster you see before you—but you chose to do _nothing_." Just like the rest of them. She heard the unspoken words as clearly as if he had screamed them.

"So we will go on as before," he continued. "Me, the unfeeling god driven by betrayal and hatred, and you… You'll pretend you came out on the righteous end of this exchange. But no matter what you tell yourself, you'll die inside—just a little at a time until it corrupts every affection you share with him."

"Liar!" she spat back at him, infusing her glare with searing contempt.

"I am when it suits me, and it often does." He was unmoved by her scorn. "But you'll never know for certain whether what you experienced with me was mere artifice—or if I gave you the bald truth." He tilted his head, smiling as though offering her sympathy. "This is my gift to you. This is but a small part of my vengeance against him."

His gaze dropped to her lips and lingered there for a heartbeat, for two. She shivered as the air became too heavy again to breathe, and she closed her eyes, feeling damned by that small part of her which hoped he would repeat the kiss. She hoped he would do more.

"Goodnight, Jane," he whispered. "Sweet dreams."

He was gone.

She sagged against the pillar, her body weak and shaking as though she had gone seven rounds with the devil and barely survived. She wanted to weep from fatigue, from the thorny doubt he had planted in her heart about who she was. About who _he_ was—or who he could be.

Shaking her head, she clenched her jaw. She would not be another one of his victims. She would not carry the blame for his continued treachery. If he had truly wanted to change, then he would have done it already. Without a woman like her at his side.

_You'll pretend you came out on the righteous end of this exchange._

The ghost of his words squeezed her chest like a vice, and she hated it.

He was wrong.

He had to be.

* * *

A/N: I leave it to you to decide if Loki was as unaffected by the kiss (and the vision) as he appeared to be.

Thank you for reading! If you have a moment, I'd love to hear what you thought. :)


	4. Broken Pieces Lokane

**Disclaimer:** *_checks financial holdings_* Nope. Marvel is still not on the list. No copyright was harmed in the weaving of this tale.  
**Rating:** T  
**Genres:** Drama, Romance, _AAAANNNNGGGSSSTTTT  
_**Summary:** Sequel to "Dying"-the chapter before this one (Reading that oneshot first is _absolutely_ necessary.) She believed that when he gave her the vision of the life they could have had together, he only meant to torment her—to steal whatever happiness she had with his hated brother. But could it haunt him as much it haunts her?

**WARNING (MILD):** Dark_ish_ Loki. This is Thor 2 Loki.

**A/N:** Again, this was inspired more by a song than by the prompt itself. The song this time: "Too Many to Mend" by Libby Weaver.

* * *

**76 BROKEN PIECES**

* * *

_I'm the one who loads the gun  
You fire the bullet, then you run  
I soak the ground with gasoline  
You strike the match and throw down the flame_

_We never learned to bend  
so we break and break again  
And now we're broken in  
too many pieces to mend_

He despised her.

His hatred for her was nearly as vast as the loathing he clung to for Thor. She was no different than the others—unforgiving, untrusting, unwilling to see him as anything more than the starless night to Thor's shining day. Oh, but her crime was even greater. She _knew_ him. She knew a lifetime with him—knew the shape of him against the curve of her—and still she rejected him. Not that he had truly expected anything less.

But in the heartbeat between the kiss and the horrified tears coursing down her cheeks, insidious _hope_ had tightened his throat. An emotion he had eternally forbidden himself once he released the end of Gungnir and slipped into the bleak emptiness between realms.

She, a mere mortal, had somehow coaxed from him the naïve child hidden within—the boy who still believed in happily-ever-afters, who saw a future at his brother's side as a trusted advisor and friend. The boy who gaily swallowed every lie fed to him by his supposed parents.

For one breath, she had made him believe again.

And then shattered that fragile emotion with her invidious refusal.

He _hated_ her. He hated that despite her cruelty, she remained the flame to his moth—the beacon of his every repressed desire. He was drawn to her, even while knowing that to reach for her meant anguish, suffering. Death a thousand times over. Because he _wanted_. He wanted the serenity on her lips, the intensity of her passion, the comfort of her quiet sighs. More than his vengeance against Thor.

He wanted not love but peace. Peace he thought he would find in the destruction of Jotunheim, in the subjugation of Earth, in the very death of the brother whose shadow had become so long, so dark. He wanted to lay bare his soul and _be_ enough as he had never been. Without trickery. Without machinations. Without lies. But no such peace existed for monsters like himself.

Except with her. She who belonged not to him but to his accursed brother.

Why? _Why?_

Was he cursed? When he kissed her, had the Norns given him that vision as an everlasting damnation for his transgressions? If they believed he, a _god_, would accept this penance with humility, then even the Fates severely underestimated him. Because he would have her—or she would join him in Hel. Either suited him just fine.

He stalked toward her in the murky twilight of Svartalfheim. In a few hours, they would exact their retribution against their joint enemy, and then Loki would be gone, his ephemeral bargain with Thor completed. In the stillness before adrenalin and violent action, however, Jane stood on the precipice overlooking the desolate landscape below—outside of the safety of her golden-haired protector who slumbered in their makeshift camp behind. Loki seized this opportunity. For what? To push her over the edge? Or to take her? He wasn't yet certain.

She spun at the sound of the gravel crunching beneath his boots, eyes wide at first, then narrowing with suspicion. He liked that. The sweet taste of the fear quickening her breath despite her futile effort to suppress it. He was danger. He was unpredictability. He was hate and bitterness and vengeance. Lies. Corruption. Mayhem.

And who was she? The savior who refused to save him. Worthless.

"Go away," she hissed quietly with a darting glance toward camp. Toward Thor.

Grinning, Loki decided against throwing her into the chasm. For now. "No." He took her in with a fluid gaze, from the fists clenched at her sides to the taut muscles of her jawline. Why was she significant—this _human_?

"If you try anything, I'll scream." She issued the threat without emotion, as if merely laying out the terms of their encounter.

He offered her a bare nod in tacit agreement. Clasping his hands behind his back, he surveyed the shadowed outline of Malekith's vessel beyond and swallowed back the rage that rose like bile in his throat.

"Are you afraid?" he asked after a time, giving Jane a sidelong glance.

She frowned at the unexpected question. "Of what? You? Him?" She nodded toward the leviathan below.

He raised a brow, offering no clarification. Let her determine which answer he sought. He learned long ago the less he talked, the more others revealed themselves—particularly the vulnerabilities they believed to be hidden so well.

"Yes," she said with equal ambiguity. "I'm terrified."

He smiled. A dozen acrid remarks danced across his tongue, but he left them unsaid. Just as he left unsaid any encouraging statements to allay her fears. Such fiction dripped from Thor's lips, not his. Why bother with lies when the truth had greater impact?

Silence fell between them, thick like fog. She hugged herself, shivering as if chilled, but didn't attempt to walk away. There was something telling in that, though he had yet to discern what it was.

She was the first to breach the stillness. "Must be nice." He raised a brow, but she went on before he could reply. "I mean, it must be nice to never be afraid. To be the cause of fear rather than the victim of it." She looked up at him, fixing him with a penetrating stare. Such a brave little thing.

The corners of his mouth lifted in amusement. "I do find it advantageous."

She shook her head, mirroring his smile as if she knew the truth concealed beneath his words. The brief expression unsettled him. They had slipped unknowingly into a familiarity that came from sharing a lifetime together—a lifetime they'd never had. One she would never give him. The moment passed, as fleeting as the breeze that ruffled her sorrel locks. Cold enmity flushed through his veins once more.

"Tell me," he said, closing the remaining distance between them, menace in his every movement. "Have you thought of me?" He drew the question out in a licentious murmur.

Rose blossomed on the apples of her cheeks and she turned away. "Don't."

He gave her a ruthless grin, tongue grazing across his bottom lip. "Oh, you _have_. Does it eat at you? Knowing that you are to blame for this?" He pointed at himself.

She snapped her head up with a steely glare, jabbing a finger toward him. "No, _you_ are to blame for this. Odin saved you—"

"Kidnapped me for his political schemes." Loki bit out, sudden anger snarling in his throat.

"_Saved_ you when you were left to die! And raised you as his own son!" She sucked in a deep breath, and continued in a quieter voice. "You tried to kill Thor, and he still hasn't given up on you, no matter what he says. I can see it in the way he looks at you. I hear it in the way he talks to you—like he forgets sometimes what you've done. And Frigga—"

He cut her off with a savage roar and grabbed the lapels of her coat, wrenching her toward the edge of the cliff. "_Do not speak of her!_" Fury and grief stung his eyes as he gripped Jane with white-knuckled hatred. Kill her. _Kill her_. End this torment.

But it wouldn't be the end. Not of his suffering.

It would be the end of hope.

_Hope_ again. That vile disease she had infected him with.

Growling in frustration, he dropped her to the ground, stepped away from her. He inhaled deeply, as if drawing the unrestrained emotion back into himself and crushing it into tight knot behind his heart.

He heard the fabric of her gown whispering as she stood, though he kept his unseeing gaze on the barren panorama. "You didn't scream."

"You wouldn't have killed me."

He forced a raspy laugh. "Not at this moment, no. But I am still possessed with the inclination." He leveled an icy gaze at her, pleased when she shrunk from him. "You would do well not to provoke me with your foolish bravery. And don't believe my brother's wrath to be a sufficient deterrent."

"Why can't you leave me—_us_—alone?" she asked with no small amount of venom in her tone. "Is there some rulebook that says you have to be evil?"

He kept his expression passive, though her flippant question stoked anew the tinder of his rage. "Why should I want your happiness when it comes at the cost of mine?"

She gestured wildly in the air. "_Cost?_ There is no correlation between your happiness and anyone else's."

"That," he said in a low voice, advancing on her, "is a lie. You can fool yourself now, but there will come a time when you'll no longer be able to deny the truth."

"What truth? That little dream you conjured up?" she returned, though with far less bravado than before. "That's not love, Loki."

"No, it isn't." He loomed over her, followed her when she retreated. "This isn't love. It's something infinitely more—deeper, visceral. This is _need_. You are the air I would breathe, the wellspring with which I would quench my unending thirst. And you, with your selfish need for something so banal as love—you would deny me _life_."

She stared up him with wide amber eyes, lips parted as if he'd stolen the air with his indictment of her. He didn't recall reaching for her, but his fingers were knotted in her hair, holding her firm against him as he crushed his mouth over hers. This was not the lazy, curious kiss he had shared with her before, but a consummation of his repressed despair. His heart was flayed open beneath her hands, every secret hers for the taking.

And she took. Oh, she _took_.

She breathed in all of him and exhaled new images of what they were when united, creating a more complete vision. Of their first time, his fingers scaling down her silken skin as she arched into him. Of the moments she challenged him, forcing him to reevaluate his perspective. Of stealing an apple of Idun and slipping it to her unawares. Of the maddening number of years it took before she forgave him. Of laughter and vicious arguments and heady wonder and her body curled into him.

But most of all, the stillness. Peace.

He tasted brine on her lips, as bitter as the knowledge that she would never give him any of this. He wanted it all the more. Craved her like a dying man grasping at a crust of bread just out of reach. She was salvation and condemnation, and he'd accept the latter if she would only offer him the former.

His arms cinched tighter around her waist as if he could make her a part of him, and for a blessed heartbeat, she was boneless against him, bending to his will. He nearly had her. Nearly. Before she became unmoving stone in his arms. He ended the kiss before she could shove him away.

"Go." He stepped back from her despite the overpowering impulse to grab her and make her understand. "Run off to your hero."

She stared at him wordlessly as several emotions vied for dominance on her face. Disbelief. Confusion. Anger. Horror. Pain. So much _pain_. He took that as a small consolation for the misery she caused him. She gave him a final, teary glare before making her retreat.

"Remember, Jane," he called to her back. She stopped without turning around. "Remember which brother truly needs you."

She glanced over her shoulder at him. "Stay away from me."

He spread his hands with humorless laugh. "Would that I could, but apparently, it's against the laws of evil."

She sighed, shaking her head as she walked back toward camp. He watched her until she was obscured by the vaporous gloom. She surely hated him more than ever now, but that was of little consequence. Hate, he could work with. Hate was not indifference. Hate was passion. And so was want and need.

So was love.

But, of course, this wasn't love.

He glanced at Malekith's great vessel below. Tomorrow there would be vengeance—blood for blood. And then, when the storm settled, Loki would find her again.

He would _always_ find her.

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**A/N:** Thank you for reading! If you have a moment, I'd love to know what you thought.


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